


Fever

by doberainbow



Series: Witcher Prompts [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: First Kiss, Gift Fic, I'm open to prompts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prompt Fic, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26785603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doberainbow/pseuds/doberainbow
Summary: Written in a prompt exchange for the dearest @AkikofumaJaskier got the flu and Geralt decided to take care of his sniffing bard. Then the fever came...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971496
Comments: 18
Kudos: 196





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akikofuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/gifts).



> Hey guys, 
> 
> this is my very first prompt and if you know my stories you know that how terribly difficult for me to write something short...
> 
> Well I tried my best :"D

Sickness was a foreign concept to Geralt. Being cut open or nearly losing a limb was something he was familiar with, but having a stuffy nose was something he couldn’t fully comprehend. He could effortlessly stitch up himself while bleeding out. He could snap back his dislocated joins without a hiss or grimace, but now… Now something so terrifying occurred, the witcher for a brief second thought about finding some monstrous beast and sacrificing himself before the veins, which were popping in his brain one after the other, will help him to his early grave.

Jaskier was sick.

Geralt saw it coming. The brunet was quiet in the last two days. Well, quiet was a rather broad concept when it came to the bard. He was still talking more than anyone the witcher had ever met, and when he wasn’t chatting about something silly, he was singing, humming, whistling, and making some kind of sound, like if without music in his life, he would die like a flower left unwatered.

Jaskier not only was, well less annoying, but he seemed to be shivering a lot. His teeth were making such a racket it kept up the mutant at night, even after Geralt wrapped the poet in all the blankets he possessed.

And then this morning, the brunet woke up sniffling.

His cheeks and nose seemed to be permanently rosy, and he was now strangely silent. There was not a single song throughout the whole day. He didn’t touch his precious lute nor his journals, where he always scribbled down his thoughts and new ballads.

Geralt was seriously concerned about the brunet’s health, and because the bardling was too stubborn to ask for help, the mutant had to take care of him.

“We are stopping here for the night. I will get us a bed.” Geralt’s voice was stern and not leaving any room for argument. Jaskier blinked at him with a small confused scowl.

“I thought we were trying to cross the forest tonight?” He asked quietly as the mutant led the brown mare to the stables.

“Roach needs some rest.” Geralt lied blatantly and marched towards the only tavern in this run-down village. The smell of cheap lager and the crowd of people gathering around after a long day was sharp in his nose. Even Jaskier’s flowery scent vanished as they walked inside the establishment, and as usual, their footsteps were followed by a lumbering silence and disgusted stares.

Geralt pulled his hood further into his face as the bard quietly followed him.

Normally, when town-folks were giving the death-stares and mutely planned how they would impale the witcher on their pitchforks, the troubadour had one or two things to say.

Jaskier has this insatiable urge inside him to fight against every single soul on this damned world who looks at the mutant in the wrong way. As flattering as it was, it caused them so much trouble, the silver-haired man lost count.

The poet was always overly eager to question and point out the people who were making vile remarks about the witcher. Like a one-man army of righteousness, he picked a fight with a mass of men over the few months they know each other, and somehow it was always Geralt who ended up with bruised and bloodied knuckles, dragging a furious bardling out of different inns and courts.

Now, Jaskier was silent as a graveyard. He kept his weary, ocean-blue eyes on the muddy floorboards and wrapped Geralt’s spare cloak around his body like he was still outside in the late autumn breeze.

The mutant frowned at the poet as they reached the bar, and the young man looked unstable on his feet as he leaned against the witcher’s side.

“Sorry.” Jaskier mumbled with a shy smile and averted his eyes to the crowd.

Geralt kept his amber gaze on the brunet. He looked fatigued. Like someone who had been through hell and back in mere hours. Jaskier’s eyes were flickering, his cheeks were rosy, his nose was scrubbed red, and his lips were nearly as pale as the rest of his milky skin.

“Sit down. I will get us a room and dinner.”

The witcher had seen how those chapped lips opened to argue, but the bard was probably too exhausted to even keep his eyes open. His ‘thank you’ was nearly audible and Geralt hated the way he walked away. No. Not walked, but slipped away.

Jaskier was a pompous, vibrant, and extraordinary little thing.

Everything about the man was like his whole personality. His laugh was bubbly, slightly sarcastic sometimes, but mostly whole-hearted and delightful. His grins and smirks were charming, even if Geralt hated to admit it. His eyes somehow captured that shade of blue, which was secretly the mutant’s favourite. His walk was proud and marginally feminine as he swayed his slender hips with each of his steps. His clothes were always so bloody loud and shamelessly bold the witcher still waited with subtle excitement what the colourful lark will wear the next time.

That was all Jaskier. His silly stories that made no sense to Geralt. His playful looks and cheeky jokes. The way he gave his whole heart each time he performed. His passion and love for the hidden beauties of this cursed Continent.

That was all missing now.

Jaskier was like an empty shell. He was hollow and slowly fading away like the mist after sunrise.

Geralt had never been sick. His mutated body killed everything that entered his blood and organs. He never got the flu, and he was immune to everything that could kill a mortal man.

This was the first time when the witcher fully understood how truly fragile and delicate humans were.

The innkeeper either didn’t care about the fact that he was a beast in a man’s body or the coins on the counter blinded him enough to not see who he was talking to. Geralt didn’t care either way. He grabbed the offered key and stormed to the corner where the bard sat.

He was so wrapped up in that oversized coat he was barely shaped like a person. It was his brown mess of hair at the top, then the sea of fabric, layers after layer in a chaotic maze.

It put a tiny smirk onto the witcher’s full lips.

Geralt lifted Jaskier’s pack and held the lute with his other hand, nodding with his head towards the staircase. The poet had a broad grin on his face as he followed the man who carried all of their valuable possessions.

“I didn’t know I got a servant with the room as well.”

“You are lucky you didn’t say ‘maid’.” Geralt grunted and earned a tiny chuckle as a response.

“You know I wanted to.” Jaskier snickered, and the witcher faced him with a murderous frown.

“As I said. Lucky.” He hissed and consciously ignored how his heart started beating faster when the brunet shook his head with a jolly laugh.

The witcher pushed open the door with his shoulder and let the grinning man walk inside first before he locked the door with the rusty key.

“I don’t know about that luck. Some might think you got soft around me. Like if, and correct me if I’m wrong, you let me get away with things.” Jaskier teased as he threw the heavy coat on the back of a chair and slouched down on the sturdy-looking bed.

“You’re wrong.” Stated Geralt, and the reaction was a mocking snort and an award-winning eye-roll.

“Oh please, a few months ago, you would be sulk around and glare at me for hours for a comment like that. Admit it. I grew on you.”

“Like a rash.” Geralt nodded in agreement and left himself quietly laugh with the cackling poet. They were interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door. It was one of the bar maidens with their two plates of roast dinner. As soon as the witcher closed the door, Jaskier scrunched up his nose in a loathing grimace.

“I don’t know if I have a headache because I’m nauseous or I’m nauseous because I have a headache.” Jaskier groaned as he took the offered plate and pulled up his legs to have a makeshift flat surface in his lap.

“I know I have a headache because of you. Eat.” Geralt muttered and didn’t miss the way the poet grinned around the fork in between his lips.

Jaskier kept sniffling and apologising for sniffling while they ate. Like if he shared his dinner with some nobleman. Geralt couldn’t care less. He would pick his roasted potatoes out of a dead kikimora’s bloody grip if he had to, and even that wouldn’t be the worst way he consumed one of his meals throughout his miserable life.

Jaskier became silent again. He kept holding his temples, and his jawline flexed under his snow-white skin more often.

“Geralt, could you please blow out half of the candles? They are burning my eyes out.”

The witcher, who was still clearing his plate off and was too lazy to actually stand up and walk over to the flames, just calmly cast the sign Aard and let the gentle kick of magic blow out the candles. Jaskier barked out a laugh when the mutant shrugged his shoulders as an explanation and kept on demolishing his dinner.

“Fair enough.” That was all the poet said before he laid back on the bed and stretched his arms over his head. Geralt’s golden eyes caught that miniscule line of soft skin that got exposed on that flat stomach before the bard pulled the blanket over his body.

The brunet didn’t even bother changing his clothes or undressing into his breeches. Jaskier’s head was like a church bell, hammering relentlessly inside his skull with a thunderous sound. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Geralt quietly got undressed as the slow, steady breathing of the young man filled the room. The bed was just barely big enough to hold both of them, yet they didn’t even question anymore why they were sharing a bed. It came so naturally, and none of them seemed to mind it. It saved them some coins, and perhaps it was nice to feel another warm body next to theirs after being on the road for so long.

As always, when the witcher climbed under the blanket, his nose got filled with Jaskier’s scent. He inhaled deeply, letting the sweet smell linger around him. Geralt never complimented the bard, and he hardly had anything nice to say about people in general, but the mutant secretly loved the poet’s flowery scent.

Geralt couldn’t truly explain why. It was fruity and sugary at the same time. Sometimes it had a more honeyed aroma, like if the brunet was a slice of cake on a silver plate. Sometimes it got heavier and reminded the witcher of a lavender field after a raging storm.

Geralt often found himself craving the other man’s scent. In his weaker moments, all he wanted was to press his nose where Jaskier’s thin neck met his shoulder and maybe even taste the skin there.

Even just the thought of it made his mouth water. His gum itched, like if his fangs were too big for his mouth. He wanted to bite into something, anything, to kill this urge.

The witcher huffed. He let himself wander too far again, and as per usual, he buried these needs and thoughts in a deep grave and turned onto his side.

It had nothing to do with Jaskier. It was just the way he smelled. Geralt couldn’t help but find it ridiculously delicious.

The mutant was a light sleeper. Sinking into bottomless dreams was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He could wake up to the smallest noise, and his brain chased away the dark clouds of sleeping in a few seconds, sobering up the witcher in a blink of an eye.

Jaskier was shivering. His teeth were clattering. The bed slightly shook under him, and the bard was whimpering.

Geralt’s bright, yellow eyes looked at the brunet next to him. His face was red, his hair was sticking to his forehead and neck damply as Jaskier was tormented by the waves of a fever.

The witcher moved instantly. He pulled the blanket off the lithe body and saw the young man tremble as he was exposed to the cold air.

“Jaskier?” The mutant’s moved closer. His throaty voice was like a thunderbolt in the silence, but the poet didn’t wake up.

Geralt was out of the bed, walking over to Jaskier’s side, turning the man gently onto his back. His clothes were soaked, clinging to the bard’s body like a second layer of skin. He was boiling.

His skin was nearly sizzling when the mutant cooler fingers touched his shoulder and shook him awake.

“Jaskier?”

Terrified, foggy eyes opened up, and the poet gasped for air. His body quivered more vigorously as he felt like swallowing down fire. The whole room was too hot, it was burning him inside and out.

“G-Geralt!” His voice was nothing more than a choked out whisper. It was scared and demanding answers the witcher might not have.

“Sit up. You have a fever.” The mutant’s words were hurried, he pulled up the younger man, but Jaskier couldn’t hold his own weight.

Geralt cursed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He let the bard fell against his chest and drop his head into the crook of his neck.

“So cold.” Jaskier moaned and immediately as an octopus wrapped all his strong limbs around the witcher.

The silver-haired man froze. The poet’s toned thighs were caging him as the young man sought his chilled touches. He felt Jaskier’s flaming lips caress the side of his jaw as the bard mumbled something unintelligible into his flesh.

The mutant’s head was empty. He could hear the wind inside his mind as all his thoughts were blown away. Jaskier’s needy, overheated body was now in his lap, and Geralt knew that he had to act fast.

Fever for humans could be deadly, and the poet was practically flaming. Whatever virus was poisoning him was winning unless the witcher comes back to reality and acts immediately.

Geralt tried to pull away, but Jaskier mumbled something and wrapped his arms around the mutant’s broad chest with more strength. The man snarled and reached to hold the poet’s face in between his palms.

The bard let out a drunken giggle when those cold hands cupped his cheeks.

“Mmm. Like snow.” He murmured and turned his face slightly until his lips touched the inside of Geralt’s wrist. The witcher's breath hitched in his throat.

“Stop!” He asked. And truly, he was pleading. His voice was nothing but a rasp, and Jaskier’s groggy grin just grew wider. “You’re burning up.” Geralt tried to reason with the troubadour, but he only earned another chuckle and a feather-light, clumsy kiss on his wrist.

“You are hot, too, My Darling Witcher.” Jaskier snickered, and the mutant rolled his amber eyes so forcefully he thought they may get stuck inside his skull.

It was pointless to argue with the bard right now. Geralt moved, he used his witchery strength and started to unbutton Jaskier’s teal chemise. Each time his blunt nails or cold fingertips brushed over the skin under the fabric, the bard hummed a satisfied little tune.

The mutant was ripping the fine clothing. He didn’t mean to, but he could not think straight, and he was beyond being soft and gentle. Jaskier found his frustration overly satisfying.

“My Wolf.” He whispered and, with a sly smirk, reached to tug off Geralt’s dark-grey tunic.

“That won’t be necessary.” The witcher spoke and peeled off those warm, long fingers.

Jaskier was not having it. If he couldn’t take off the fabric, he will slide his soft palms under it and discover those hard plates and gorgeous body he was yearning for since that day in Posada.

Geralt finally finished with the buttons and pulled the material off Jaskier’s hot torso, making the bard’s arms leave their little exploring under his own tunic.

“Mhh, I like where this is going.” Jaskier shrugged off his chemise and looked at Geralt from under his thick eyelashes with those hazy, ocean eyes.

“Your brain is boiling itself, bard, that’s where we are going.” The poet understood probably nothing from what he just said because he giggled as if the witcher said something terribly funny.

The mutant had an idea of how he could lower the brunet’s body temperature, but it was difficult to even move a muscle when Jaskier wanted nothing more than to melt into Geralt’s body, judging by how close he was.

Geralt had this silly idea that maybe they could get up, perhaps help the bard wobble over to the window, open it up, and they could enjoy the freezing night breeze until Jaskier was back to normal.

Well, all that was impossible while the brunet looked at him with those wanting eyes and pressed himself up to Geralt’s body until his naked chest flushed against the wolf medallion.

“So cold.” Jaskier shivered and bit his bottom lip as he let out a pleased little purr.

“We need to cool you down.” Geralt tried to reason with the feverish man, but his words couldn’t reach that misty mind of the brunet. “Jaskier?”

The bard didn’t answer. His head rolled onto the witcher’s shoulder with a dull thump, and he went limp in Geralt’s lap.

“Fuck.”

Geralt stood up quickly. Lifting Jaskier’s body was nothing to his monstrous strength. The bard’s arms fell and dangled next to them as the witcher reached under his thighs with one arm and held the poet’s back with his other. He strode across the room to the window, lifting Jaskier higher.

He placed the bard on the narrow windowsill. Let him sit there as he reached behind the young man and opened the window behind him, pushing it wide open. The noise and smell of rain filled the room in a minute, and Jaskier came to his senses again with a low cry.

“N-no! Stop. Please, Geralt, I-” Jaskier’s nails bit into his forearms as the man tried to jump off the windowsill and ran away. The witcher knew that he couldn’t support his own weight in this state, and he needed to cool down. He held down the bard’s thighs with one hand and slid his other palm over that frantically rising and falling naked chest.

“Shh.” He tried to calm down the panicking little lark in his arms, but Jaskier just kept shaking and whimpering into his ears. “You’re burning up, bard.”

“I-it hurts. My skin. Geralt, it hurts so much. Please!” Jaskier’s begging made his chest tight. He could feel his throat dry out, and he pressed his teeth together fiercely.

“You have a fever. You have to cool down.”

“I-I’m so… so cold. It’s too cold, Geralt. Please!”

The witcher bit into his tongue. He moved his arm from Jaskier’s chest and reached out the window. He could feel the fat drops of rain sit in his hand. He slowly placed his wet palm over the brunet’s forehead. Jaskier’s skin was so overheated Geralt thought the rain will turn into steam as soon as it touches the bard.

The young man’s eyelashes trembled, and he wept as the cold water ran along his rosy cheeks, down on his neck and chest.

Geralt kept brushing his wet hand over and over that gorgeous face. He collected some cold raindrops in his palm and then smeared it over that hot skin. He ran his fingers into those thick brown locks. Even Jaskier’s scalp was scorching. His whole body was shaking, and his teeth were making soft, clinking sounds. Strong, toned legs clasped around Geralt’s hips, not letting him move away from the bard.

“Alright.” He kept mumbling. Not to Jaskier, the poet was too drunk with fever to hear or understand anything. “You’re alright.” It was more to himself. Keeping him sane. A reminder that he can do this.

He can be gentle and caring. He was once human. A really long time ago. He once had feelings and a healthy relationship with his emotions. He could be kind to Jaskier. He wanted to be kind because the bard deserved it.

Since that first day, the poet looked at Geralt as if the mutant was some god walking on this Earth. His songs painted this picture of this heroic, dauntless man and Geralt wanted to be that person.

He wanted Jaskier to see that he tried to be better. He tried to open up. He tried to let the bard in, and he never did that before. He never even considered it before.

But now, he had this beautiful, delicate human in his arms, crying and begging, and it shattered his soul into thousands of tiny pieces. Not because he feared for the poet’s life. No. Jaskier may be a fragile human, but this fever won’t kill him.

Geralt was terrified because, for the first time in his life, he needed someone.

He needed the bard more than he needed air.

“Geralt, please. ‘S too cold.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and without thinking about it twice, he pressed a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead. The bard hummed and tried to chase the feeling of pillowy lips on his skin.

“More!” He asked and opened those impossibly blue eyes. Geralt forgot how to breathe for a second. They were so bright and carrying so much adoration the witcher didn’t even deserve.

“Jaskier…”

“More. Please! Feels good. You feel good. Cold, but not painfully so.” He breathed out heavily and moved his soft palms up on Geralt’s forearms. Fingers dipped into the small valleys on his elbows. They traced the thick cord of muscles and faded scars on the mutant’s upper arms. Strong shoulders. Shoulders which carried the weight of the whole world. Then he caressed Geralt’s neck.

Jaskier watched with half-lidded eyes as the man swallowed. His fingertips were hard from playing the lute for too many years, yet when they ran along the witcher’s jawline, it was the softest touch Geralt ever felt in his long life.

“Don’t!” Geralt begged and opened his golden eyes. He didn’t even realise he closed them.

“I want to.” Jaskier smiled, and his thumb gingerly brushed over the mutant’s bottom lip.

Geralt feared that it was the fever talking, and Jaskier wouldn’t say these things if he wouldn’t be tormented by sickness. Or maybe the bard really wanted him.

The witcher saw how sometimes the bard was lost in his thoughts, and his blue eyes lingered on him for some long minutes. He saw how the brunet stole some looks when Geralt was taking a bath. But they were men. Men on the road where there was no company, just the two of them. Of course, sometimes, the poet perhaps thought about sharing the night with Geralt.

But the witcher wanted more.

Geralt needed more than a night. More than a year. He wanted decades and centuries. He wanted an eternity. He didn’t only want that lithe, trembling body.

He wanted Jaskier. His heart, his soul, his beautiful mind. He wanted it all.

“I want you…” The whisper came again, and Geralt’s fingers dug into the poet’s sides. He knew he had to be careful. Jaskier could bruise so easily. But fuck, Geralt wanted to see his fingerprints, the shape of his hand on that milky skin.

“You’re talking nonsense.” He tried to smile, but it was just a bogus half-grin that he managed.

“Mmm… maybe. My brain is cooked.” Jaskier snorted, and Geralt softly laughed with him now.

He fucking loved this mess of a bardling in his arms.

“It never worked anyway.” The mutant muttered, and the laugh that bubbled out of the bard surely woke up everyone in this tavern.

He touched the brunet’s forehead. His temperature was slowly crawling back to normal.

The wind changed direction after a while. Jaskier’s bare-back got wet from the rain, but he didn’t complain. He just pulled Geralt closer and buried his head into the mutant’s neck.

“ 'S not fair you’re wearing this.” He mumbled into the witcher’s white skin and tugged on the coarse fabric of the dark tunic.

“Life is not fair.” Geralt sighed and Jaskier painfully groaned against his neck.

“You could help me cool down.” The bard tried his luck with a grin that the mutant felt on his own flesh, and he chuckled into the silky brown hair.

“Tempting.”

“Liar!” Jaskier snickered, and Geralt pulled back to look into his cloudy eyes.

“You have no idea how wrong you are now.”

The words escaped his lips so fast the witcher just dumbly blinked when Jaskier’s eyes widened, and pale lips fell apart.

“T-then why?” It was just a breath of air. Geralt read those lips because he couldn’t hear the bardling. He saw tears gathering in the corners of Jaskier’s eyes.

He knew that Jaskier knew why. And he also knew that the bard maybe won’t remember any of this in the morning.

And he wanted him to remember it, so he lied.

“Your nose is running.” Geralt said with a broad grin, and for a moment, Jaskier just stared at him.

“Oh, fuck you!” He sniffled and tried to hide his chuckle behind his hand.

“I’m serious, bard. You are a mess.” Geralt continued in his rough, monotone voice, and Jaskier threw back his head with a laugh. “I don’t want to be covered in tears and snot and-”

“Said the man who is always covered in bloody guts and monster’s remains.” Jaskier giggled and watched that stunning smile on the witcher’s lips.

“Hm. Still better than a sick human.” Geralt nodded with pretended repulsion, and the brunet arched an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, is that it?”

“Hm. Definitely less disgusting.” The witcher shrugged, and even with his mutated senses and fast reflexes, he couldn’t foresight what Jaskier will do.

He didn’t realise how the brunet locked his ankles behind his thighs until the bard pulled him closer, and Geralt lost his balance. He didn’t see the way those clever fingers balled up his tunic in a tight grasp and yanked him against Jaskier.

He did see that smirk before his vision was filled with the bard, though. His lungs were filled with his scent. His hands were full as he grabbed the meaty flesh of the poet’s thighs. His lips were covered with Jaskier’s blazing mouth.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a promise.

So brief and loving, it made him gasp for air, but all he found was Jaskier.

And Geralt took what he could.

He took what was offered with a roar. If Jaskier wanted him to be closer, Geralt will fucking crawl under his skin. Their lips fit together like they were made to be a pair.

Their whole bodies became one frantically breathing heated movement.

Fever. Hunger. Thirst. Adoration. Love. Wanting.

All that in one second. Because it wasn’t more than that.

A one-second kiss that lasted for an eternity.

Jaskier moved back with a smirk. Geralt licked his lips, trying to savour his sweet taste. Engrave it into his memory forever. He had to stop himself from chasing that mouth. Stop himself from claiming Jaskier’s lips as his again and again. The beast inside him was rattling its cage, and the poet watched him suffering with a grin.

“Disgusting, huh?” Jaskier teased, still so close to the witcher that their lips brushed together as he spoke.

“Hm. Awful.”

Geralt growled and leaned his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“Your fever is nearly gone.” He muttered, and for a few moments, they just stared at each other.

“Don’t want to move.” Jaskier sighed and wrapped his arms around the mutant’s neck.

“I can take you to bed.” Geralt offered, and that low purr in the bard’s chest was making his skin tingle.

“Sounds promising.”

“To sleep.” Geralt clarified it, and the groan that escaped the poet’s soft lip was so pained and terribly dramatic it was quite hilarious.

“You are a horrible person.” Jaskier pouted, whiled the witcher reached under his firm bottom, and lifted him into the air.

“Keeps me up at night.” Geralt nodded as the poet giggled into his ear.

“I could keep you up at night.” He offered and playfully bit into the pale skin on the mutant’s neck, gaining a literal snarl from the monster-hunter.

“Not while you are ill, Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled and carefully climbed into the bed with the bard still hanging on him like a cluster of grapes until his back touched the soft sheet, and he laid down on the pillow, pulling the man on top of him.

“Is it my sniffing that kills the mood?”

“No. I like your red nose.” Geralt placed a tiny peck on that said nose as the brunet squirmed under him with a chuckle. “The fever weakens your body, and I don’t want to hurt you.” Now the mutant told the truth and dropped his head onto Jaskier’s chest, listening to the bard’s fast heartbeats, while gentle fingers played with his silver hair.

“You could never hurt me,” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt shut his eyes.

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that he will never harm the young man, but somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, he knew that’s not possible.

But for now, it didn’t matter.

Now those thoughts didn’t exist. It was just the two of them. Jaskier and his nimble fingers in Geralt’s hear. His warm skin and his pleased smile. His loud heartbeats and shallow breathing.

Just the bard and his witcher.

And that tiny sniffle that tickled the poet’s rosy nose.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was it. My first ever prompt, and hopefully not the last.
> 
> Thank you @Akikofuma for this brilliant idea!!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and throw me the next challenge, Darling ;)
> 
> See ya ~~
> 
> PS: hit me up on twitter, peeps
> 
> @doberainbow


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